whether it was safe to approach a woman whose sanity might be slipping away.
“Do you have police friends in the West Indies?” I said. “Anyone who might be capable of utilizing a telephone as a communication tool rather than a weapon of mass frustration? I mean, every single person I talked to acted like they wanted to help and then they’d just go away and never come back to the phone.”
“New case?” he said, his expression relaxing into amusement.
“No, my ongoing case.” I rubbed my tired eyes, then ran my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, but I have been on the phone for—” I glanced at the clock. “Four hours.”
“So take a break.”
“Good idea.” I left the desk and went over to offer him a proper hello. After we kissed and hugged and kissed again, we went to the living room and sat on the only unencumbered piece of furniture, the green and red chenille sofa.
I quickly assumed the comfort position with my head in his lap. He began massaging my temples with his strong fingers, reminding me exactly how much pleasure this man could generate with only a simple touch—and I didn’t even have to take my clothes off.
“I missed you last night,” I said.
“Two homicides. One perp got away. This city is too damn big and too damn populated.” Out came the gum.
“You’ve mentioned that before,” I said.
“And I was so tied up, I forgot to tell you that Quinn asked me for help on IDing a suspect and I suggested she contact an artist I know to—”
“Mason Dryer?” I offered.
“Ah, she already called you.” He stuffed his gum wrappers in his shirt pocket. “Did you meet with him?”
I nodded and told him about the composite, but decided not to mention I’d photographed the drawing. Better if we both remained ignorant as to whether this was somehow “interfering with an official investigation.”
“So far,” I said, “no one claims to know this woman, but Kate and I think she resembles Megan.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” he said, switching from my temples and massaging my skull from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck.
I sighed and closed my eyes. This was so nice.
“But I hope you’re not jumping to any conclusions,” he added.
My eyes snapped open. “I remember your lecture on coincidence in murder investigations and—”
“Glad you were paying attention.” He grinned. “But remember, Abby. People often resemble someone else. I’d be cautious about giving any physical similarities too much weight until you have some hard evidence.”
I held up my right hand. “I, Abby Rose, do solemnly swear to temper all deductions with common sense and—”
“Shut up,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s move on to when I arrived and saw you nearly pull your hair out by the roots when I came in—an activity which, by the way, might allow you to grow out your hair.”
I sat up and looked him in the eye. “Grow out my hair? I had no idea you liked long hair.”
“I was talking about the color.” He gently tucked a few of the chin-length strands behind my ear on one side.
“You don’t like the color?” I’d recently gone from auburn to a more highlighted look at the urging of my wacko hairstylist. Goes to show you, you should never trust a man with jeweled teeth.
“Just kidding,” Jeff said. “I love your hair.”
But guys do not kid about hair or your hips or how you handle you checkbook, even when they smile and laugh and say they love you just the way you are. I’d consider a change. Maybe.
“I’m waiting to hear how your ongoing case has you talking to Jamaicans,” he said.
“Big turn of events today.” I told him about Megan’s altered birth certificate and how many people I’d spoken to in Jamaica in an attempt to get some answers. “Do you understand my frustration?” I said. “How do I get anything out of those island people?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I interview most of my witnesses in person. I use the phone only to let the nice ones know I’ll be showing up at their door. Not many nice ones, by the way. And now, I could use a drink. How about you?”
We both stood.
“Good idea. Rum and Coke, mon,” I said, considering the possibility of a little business trip.
Jeff had to be in court the following day, so when we woke up, we jogged at the Rice University campus for an hour. I’ve dropped ten pounds in the last six months, thanks to hanging around with a man who has some discipline when it comes to exercise. We even lift weights together. My once pudgy thighs and less than toned arms are now more muscle than fat.
After our run we shared a shower and plenty of soapy playtime; then Jeff left for the courthouse. I immediately called my travel agent and asked her to investigate flights to Jamaica and hotels in Kingston. She gave me the options, and I chose a flight that left at ten the next morning.
I needed a new suitcase since mine hadn’t survived the last trip I took, so I spent considerable hours in department stores and leather outlets searching for what I needed. On my way home around six P.M., I dropped by Kate’s place to tell her I’d be out of town for a few days.
She and Terry Armstrong live together in a West University bungalow even older than mine, which they had completely remodeled inside and out after Kate moved in. I pulled up close to the garage and Kate must have heard me, because she opened the kitchen door and called to me just as I got out of the car.
“Gate’s open, Abby. Come on in.”
Her border collie met me when I came through the narrow back hall leading to the kitchen. I gave Webster a scratch behind the ears and he wagged his tail, then ambled back to his blanket by the door. Herding dogs are supposed to be full of energy, but I’d decided long ago Webster either had a missing gene or he was just plain lazy. But no matter what, he was sweet and loyal and gentle—rather like Kate.
My sister was standing by the sink peeling steaming hot beets. Now on the one to ten “yuck factor” scale, I considered beets a twenty. Glad I’d had that pepperoni slice at the Galleria and could only hope I still had the receipt to prove I’d already eaten should Kate question me. She knows how much I hate vibrant vegetables.
“Hey, glad you came for dinner,” she said, dumping the beets from the purple-stained cutting board into a saucepan. She turned and placed the pot on the island six-burner cooktop.
“No dinner. I came to ask a favor.” I leaned against the angled granite-covered counter separating the kitchen from the small breakfast nook behind me.
“What do you need?”
“Can you feed Diva and give her some attention for the next couple days? Jeff is hardly ever around and —”
“Where are you headed?”
“Jamaica.”
“A vacation? Did you tell me this already?” She now had her hands in what I recognized was a large bowl of bulgur wheat soon to be transformed into her rendition of “meatless loaf.” I felt doubly thankful I had a valid excuse to escape soon. I had packing to do.
“No vacation. I found out yesterday Megan was born in Jamaica, not Texas.”
She quit messing with the wheat. “No way. Tell me about this.”
“I need wine first. Preferably white and cold. And not that organic crap, either.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, turning to the refrigerator.
Terry didn’t like organic wine, either, so I knew I wasn’t making an unreasonable request. Once I’d had a sip of a sauvignon blanc, I filled her in on our visit to the Bureau of Vital Statistics.
“How did Megan handle this piece of news?” Kate asked.
“How do you handle another bucket of possums? I don’t think she was prepared to uncover a major and obviously illegal deception. But she still wants answers, and I plan to deliver.”
“You two are a lot alike,” Kate said.
“I think you’re right, Doc. By the way, I spent some time talking to Graham Beadford, and there was no love lost between him and his brother.” I recapped my conversation with Graham this morning and mentioned my theory that bankruptcy may have created the animosity
